


there’s only so much i can do

by scarlettroses



Category: Newsies (1992), Newsies - All Media Types, Newsies!: the Musical - Fierstein/Menken
Genre: Angst, Canon Era, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor Injuries, angst angst angst, kinda??
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-21
Updated: 2017-11-21
Packaged: 2019-02-05 00:30:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,517
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12782964
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/scarlettroses/pseuds/scarlettroses
Summary: "I just don't get how you completely deserted us," sighs Race, still not looking up. "We's fighting for every working kid in New York. You couldn't'a done it for your own boys? Your own goddamn rights? You couldn't'a done it for me?"-sprace after the strike.prompt: “I would do anything for you.”





	there’s only so much i can do

**Author's Note:**

> soooo.... brooklyn didn’t show up the strike and race isn’t too happy with spot. 
> 
> they talk. 
> 
> (i’m really tired and i just wanted to get this done tonight so it might be full of mistakes? oh well)

Spot hears Race before he sees him.

"I need to see Conlon, dammit!" Race is yelling at the poor boys who've been tasked with keeping watch of the doors of the Brooklyn Lodge. Spot himself is upstairs, listening to the scene outside through his open window, and he's not sure he's ready to deal with this. "Hey, get your hands off me! I don't care what he said, I'm talkin' to him, now!"

When Race storms into Spot's room, Spot can see just why the boys let him past without soaking him.

Race is some kind of state- there's dried blood from his nose to his chin and a massive bruise on the side of his face. His clothes are dirty and have a variety of new holes where they didn't before. He's glowering too, staring Spot down with the ferocity of the lions and tigers they'd seen when they snuck into the Bronx Zoo a while ago.

Both boys are quiet for a moment, stalk still with their eyes locked, until Race finally breaks the silence.

"How could you?" he asks, with a shake to his voice that Spot hadn't been expecting. Looking beyond the initial anger and past the blood and bruises, Race looks like he might cry. "Spot... _how_?"

Spot swallows heavily and manages to break the eye contact. He stares down at the floor and wrings his cap in his hands, a nervous habit he's been performing all day.

" _Tony_..." he starts. He's never been good at conveying emotions, but for once, he hopes he sounds as desperate and sorry as he feels. "I'm..."

Well, he's not _sorry_ \- he did what he had to do. But he is desperate for Race to understand, for him to see what he's going through here.

"Shut up," snaps Race. "Do you wanna know what happened today, Spot? We went on strike, for the sake of every newsie in all of New York, and somehow every other borough deserted us. You know why? Because Spot Conlon didn't feel like showin' up. We got _slaughtered_."

Spot opens his mouth, desperate to say something, _anything_ , but Race is quick to shut him down.

"I got boys busted up with broke bones!" yells Race, suddenly stalking toward Spot from where he'd been lingering in the doorway. "The bulls got Crutchie, Spot! They took him to the Refuge, and kids like him _die_ in places like that!"

Spot inhales sharply and nods guiltily, like when you're being chewed out by a teacher and all you can do is nod along. Just the thought of poor Crutchie in the Refuge makes Spot feel a little sick. The boy can hold his own in a fight, sure, but he's got nothing on a bunch of guards with too much pent-up agression, or a room full of boys who know nothing but violence and abuse. Or even just the germs in there- if he were to get sick... he'd be gone.

"I'm sorry, Race," says Spot, still unable to even look up at the Manhattan boy. "But you know we couldn't just rush into it. I got so many young boys, I can't drag them in without knowing what's gonna happen."

Racetrack sighs, rubs at his eyes, and shakes his head. He's quiet for a while, clearly trying to calm down. When he speaks again he sounds far less angry and much more exhausted.

"You know Romeo?" he asks, walking over to sit next to Spot on his bed. "Friendly little fella, 'bout twelve years old?" Spot nods. "A bull busted him in the face and now he don't know who no one is."

Spot frowns in confusion, instantly feeling a cloud of guilt surround him. Manhattan has young boys too, and they got hurt because Spot wasn't ready to back them up.

"What?" he asks. "How's that even happen?"

Race shrugs, staring emptily at the floor.

"Must'a whacked him so hard it rattled his brain," he says and his voice sounds distant, like even he can't really process it. "He woke up an' I _tried_ talkin' to him, but he ain't know who I was. He can't name a single one of the fellas he been livin' with since he was seven years old."

Spot swallows heavily and stares at the floor. The air feels heavy with anger and sadness. There's never tension like this between the two of them; it's nauseating. Spot just doesn't know what to say- nothing he can say will be helpful now.

“I’m sorry, ‘ _Tonio_ ,” he mumbles after a while. Spot Conlon doesn’t often apologize, but he really fucked up this time- bad enough that he’s pulling out the soft, shortened version of Race’s real name that’s only ever whispered between the two of them. He finally looks up at Race, but the Manhattan boy is still staring at the floor. “We should’a been there. I should’a sent a couple fellas, at least… an’ told the other boroughs to back you up. I’m real sorry.”

Race only nods. He’s acknowledging Spot’s apology, but Spot certainly hasn’t been forgiven yet. He definitely won’t be for a while.

“I just don’t get how you completely deserted us,” sighs Race, still not looking up. “We’s fighting for every working kid in New York. You couldn’t’a done it for your own boys? Your own goddamn rights? You couldn’t’a done it for _me_ , Sean?”

Now that Race has brought out Spot’s own birth name, things really are serious. Spot’s hands are shaking now; he’s never felt guilt like this before. Kids are out there hurting, bleeding, because of his own bad decision. He bites his tongue for a second and then suddenly explodes with emotion.

“Damn it, I would do _anything_ for you, Antonio!” he says, grabbing Race by the shoulders, which coaxes him into finally looking up. Their eyes meet and they stay there for a moment, like the world has faded away from just the two of them. Spot reaches hesitantly to touch Race’s cheek, despite knowing how bad this would look if someone were to walk in. “If this were just about us, you and I… you’d’a had me there from the beginning. But this is about everyone, and I was just thinkin’ about what’s best for my boys. I’m _sorry_. I’m so sorry.”

Race sighs, but he doesn’t push Spot’s hand away, which is a good sign.

“Sorry don’t fix nothin’ now,” he says, but he sounds guilty, like he feels bad for saying it. “Ain’t no _sorry_ gonna break Crutchie outta the Refuge.” Race’s eyes drop to his lap. “Ain’t no _sorry_ gonna fix Romeo’s head, or Les’s arm, or get me un-stabbed. But I’m glad you feel bad about it… you should.”

Spot freezes. He scans Race up and down, searching frantically for an injury he hadn’t noticed.

There it is: a piece of cloth- a makeshift bandage- tied tightly around his bicep with a concerning dark patch in the middle of it.

“One of Weasel’s guys caught me with a knife,” elaborates Race, before Spot can start to panic. “Specs got me all cleaned up. I’m fine. Just a little cut.”

Spot can feel the concerned frown on his face. There’s just something about Antonio Higgins that makes him go all soft. He cups Race’s elbow to look at the injury and feels his breath catch when Race winces in pain.

With luck like Spot’s, Race notices the little hitch in his breathing and rolls his eyes.

“Of course it hurts when you move it, you dolt,” says Race, smacking the back of Spot’s head with his free hand. That’s a bit of his personality coming back; even after the worst situations, they can be themselves around each other. “But I’m fine. It’s not too bad. Relax.”

In some kind of attempt to distract Spot from mothering him, Race quickly leans in and presses their lips together. The contact is comforting and familiar. Spot’s arms wrap around Race’s waist and Race’s hands lock behind Spot’s head. They don’t have to worry up here; the king of Brooklyn gets his own bedroom and his boys are forbidden to enter without permission.

The kiss doesn’t escalate past that- just a kiss. That’s all they need.

“I’m still mad at you,” mumbles Race, after pulling away but still leaning in close enough for their lips to brush when he speaks. “But I’ve had a shit day and I need you right now. Just… promise me you’re with us now, you and your borough.”

He pulls away just a little to look at Spot, make sure he gets wind that this is still serious.

“Yes,” says Spot, rubbing gently on Race’s hip with his thumb. “You’s got Brooklyn and you’s got everyone else. You should’a had us today and I’m feelin’ awful that you didn’t. But you got us now. I promise.”

Race initiates the kissing once again.

It’s a _thank you_ , it’s an _I love you_. It’s not forgiveness, not just yet, but that will come in time. It’s everything they need for now.

They’re okay. They’ll be okay.

**Author's Note:**

> thank youuuuu for reading!!! my tumblr is @thefactsofthematter so come say hi!!!
> 
> comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
